“We will say no more of that. I only mean to warn you that your grandfather does not wish to see you. Avoid him. Do not expect from him affection or kindness. He means to support you and shelter you, but that is all.”
“I understand,” I said. “And now—pardon me, but it has been a tiring day.”
“Very well.” Miss Rhoda rose. She was even taller than I had thought; she towered over me. “Follow me.”
As she swept toward the door, I glanced at Miss Perkins, who shook her head warningly. We would talk later—and, I imagined, with considerable warmth. Now at least we were assured of shelter for the night, and both of us were too tired to think beyond that.
But the surprises of the day were not yet over. As we crossed the entrance hall, preceded by the dignified black form of Miss Rhoda, I heard footsteps on the stairs. Miss Rhoda stopped with a start and muttered something under her breath. She turned quickly, as if to speak to me; but there was no time. A man came into sight around the curve of the stairs. Preoccupied with his private thoughts, his eyes fixed on the steps, he did not catch sight of us until he was almost at the bottom of the flight. He recoiled, so suddenly he had to catch with both hands at the railing to keep from falling; and there he remained, staring until the whites showed around his pupils.
He was elderly, but not old and fragile, as I had expected him to be. His figure was still broad-shouldered and vigorous, his gray hair thick. His features were marked by pride and temper, with harsh lines scarring his brow and framing his thin-lipped mouth. Yet there was something in the expression of his eyes—some vague wildness—that did not fit the general impression of severity. At the time I attributed this expression to surprise, for he certainly was not expecting to see us.
After Miss Rhoda’s warning, and what I already knew of him, I would not have been surprised to see him turn his back in silent disdain, or hear an angry tirade. Instead, incredulously, I beheld the stern face soften. It took on a look of radiant joy.
“Larthia!” he whispered. His voice was that of a man welcoming back to life a loved one whom he has given up for dead.
II
The room that had been prepared for me was not good enough, my grandfather declared. Only one of the grand state apartments would suffice. Miss Rhoda’s furious objections were brushed aside, and only my own insistence that I would prefer this smaller, cozier room to the dust-enshrouded grandeur of the great bedchambers persuaded Grandfather to leave matters as they had been arranged, until the larger room could be properly cleaned and redecorated. Another advantage to the original arrangement, in my eyes, was that Miss Perkins’ room was next to mine. They were not quite servants’ rooms; not quite. But it was clear that Miss Rhoda was not anxious to see me comfortably settled. She expostulated loudly with Grandfather. It was grotesquely comical to see them shouting at one another, for she did not use a word of Italian, and he answered only in that language. Yet they seemed to understand each other well enough. Finally Miss Rhoda was shouted down. She withdrew, and the angry look she gave me suggested that she blamed me as much as she blamed the old gentleman for criticizing her arrangements.
My grandfather followed her out, after summoning an army of servants, who were ordered to supply us with every possible comfort. He was oddly formal, almost shy, with me. There were no warm embraces; he bent over my hand, touched my hair; yet the affectionate smiles and glances he gave me were a welcome I had not hoped to receive.
At last Miss Perkins and I were alone. She dropped into a chair, her booted feet extended, and I followed her example. For a few moments we stared at one another; there were so many things to say, I hardly knew where to begin. Finally she sat up and examined the contents of the tray that had been brought for us, and a smile of pleasure spread over her weary face.
“Tea. Good India tea, I believe. We have Miss Rhoda to thank for that, at any rate.”
“We haven’t much else to thank her for,” I said. “Imagine, her daring to tell me that Grandfather didn’t want to have me here. She must have known I would see him sooner or later, and that his affectionate behavior would prove her a liar.”
“Precisely why I suspect she was not lying,” said Miss Perkins, pouring tea. She took a sip and sighed luxuriously. “Our first decent tea since London.”
“But nothing could have been fonder than his treatment,” I protested.
“Yes. Therefore we must conclude that between the time he gave her her orders and the moment when he saw you something happened to change his attitude. I observed that he addressed you by a name that is not your own.”
“Name?” I frowned. “I thought it was an Italian word for welcome, or a term of affection.”
“My knowledge of the language is fairly good, and I assure you that is a word I have never heard. It was not your mother’s name?”
“Her name was also Francesca.”
“Most peculiar. I don’t know why I am so sure it was a name, unless. …Yes; I am sure I have seen or read it, in that context. But where?”
“I don’t know.” I drank my tea and felt the warmth relax my taut nerves. “Nor do I really care. I am limp with relief, Miss Perkins. I confess I was very much afraid of how we would be received.”
“I know you were.” Miss Perkins smiled at me. “You controlled your anxiety very courageously. And see how well it has all turned out! Now I suggest we make use of those basins of hot water the servants have provided. The Prince said he would see us at dinner—supper. I suppose I should call it—and we mustn’t be late.”
I agreed; and Miss Perkins retired to her own room, where, I hoped, she would have time for a rest before we were called to supper. I was no longer tired. The joy of finding that I was welcomed and wanted had restored all my energy.
It was a pleasure to loosen my tight stays and remove my travel-stained clothing. While I was doing so, one of the maids came to unpack for me and help me with my toilette. By means of gestures I persuaded her to return later. I wanted to be alone for a while—to think, and to explore my new surroundings.
As I have intimated, the room was small and somewhat shabby. However, the bed linen had been aired, and the huge armoire had been cleaned out, ready for my clothing. I hung up my few dresses, trying to decide what to wear. I had little choice, for there had been no time to have mourning made before we left London, and only three of my gowns had been dyed a suitable black. Then, unable to contain my curiosity any longer. I went to the window.
The room was on the third floor of the castle, so the view was splendid. Daylight still lingered, though the light was gray and melancholy in the deeper recesses of the uneven ground. The distant vista was empty of life; only steep hills, completely covered by dark pines and tangled underbrush, lined the horizon. Nearer at hand the castle grounds descended in a series of terraced gardens to the valley below. On the left, half hidden behind a clump of trees, was a small building too ornate for a shed or a servant’s cottage. The roofline was like that of a miniature castle, with battlements and a tiny tower. As I contemplated this structure, straining my eyes to make out details through the gathering darkness, a light sprang up in one of its windows. So the little house was inhabited. I wondered by whom. It was the sort of place that might have belonged to one of the faerie knights in the French romances.
A knock on the door signaled the return of the maid, so I tore myself from my musings and let the girl go to work, unpacking and helping me dress. Teresa—for that was her name—was a pretty child, with the coal-black hair of the Roman native and a rounded figure that would one day be fat. Now it nicely filled out the short-sleeved white blouse and laced bodice she wore with a brightly embroidered skirt and apron.
Before long Miss Perkins joined me, and fell into conversation with Teresa, hoping to improve her knowledge of the local dialect. Her painstakingly learned Italian was of limited use, since the accent and vocabulary were so different. Miss Perkins’ attempts to imitate her speech reduced Teresa to red-faced gasps, as she tried to restrain her laughter. Miss Perkins soon put her at ease by chuckling loudly at her own errors, and the two of them had quite a merry time.
Teresa was an efficient maid, as I would have expected a servant trained by Miss Rhoda to be. She would not allow me to do anything for myself, even taking the brush gently from my hands when I started to do my hair. As she brushed, she murmured, “Bella—molto bella …” and I smiled at her, for I recognized that word. When I indicated that the brushing had gone on long enough and started to pin my hair up, she objected, and indicated, by gestures, that I should allow it to flow loose down my back. I shook my head. I had not worn it so casually since I was a child.
Miss Perkins, who had followed the discussion with interest, said, “Do as she says, Francesca. She would not make such a suggestion on purely aesthetic grounds; either it is the local style, or it has been requested by someone who has a right to do so.”
“Do you think Grandfather—?”
“We will soon find out,” said Miss Perkins, for Teresa was indicating that we should follow her.
We would surely have gotten lost without a guide. The room into which Teresa finally ushered us was not the formal parlor we had seen before, but a smaller, more pleasant chamber on the ground floor. It had French doors that stood wide open, admitting the perfumed breeze from the gardens. Darkness was almost complete, but the room was brilliantly lighted with dozens of wax candles. Two men occupied chairs on either side of a low table, where a chessboard was set out.
My grandfather rose quickly to his feet as we entered. His clothing was that of an earlier, more colorful era—knee breeches of brown velvet and a matching coat trimmed with gold braid. The hand he extended to me twinkled with jewels.
He frowned slightly at the sight of my somber bombazine dress with its simple white lace collar. My only ornament was a mourning brooch of jet with a lock of hair under glass. Father had had the brooch made years before, with Mother’s hair. I had prized off the back and added one of his brown curls.
Grandfather’s frown turned to a smile as he touched my hair, and I knew it had been by his orders that I was wearing it loose. His hand resting gently on my shoulder, he turned me to face the other man.
He had not risen from his chair. In the first moment of seeing him I had been misled by his curling fair hair, but my start of joyful recognition was premature. A second glance told me that this was not Andrea after all. It must be Stefano. his brother; the resemblance between the two could only be that of close kinship. Stefano’s features were like his brother’s, but his face was thinner and not so tanned. His eyes had the same sapphire sparkle, but their expression lacked Andrea’s cheerful candor. His dress was quietly fashionable; the stark white-and-black evening garb contrasted with Grandfather’s more flamboyant suit. He was balancing a slim black stick between his hands, and as I returned his critical stare with interest he lowered this to the floor and started to rise.
Then I realized the truth, and felt my cheeks turn warm with embarrassment. He was lame. Without the stick he would not have been able to stand up. and even with its aid he leaned noticeably to one side.
During the slow and obviously painful movement his eyes did not leave my face. Now the corners of his narrow lips curved slightly. I had the ridiculous impression that he had deliberately delayed rising from his chair so that I would have time to misjudge him, and then feel guilty for doing so.
When Grandfather introduced us, I found that my tentative identification had been correct. Stefano greeted Miss Perkins in English, and with perfect courtesy. Then he turned a satirical eye upon me.
